Мy inner landscape
This is not merely a record of the day, but a cartography of an invisible territory. I write slowly, for words today carry a specific, sweet weight—as if they are saturated with the rain that fell through my dreams all night. The world outside may be rushing, clocks ticking away their ruthless, linear logic, but here, in the space behind the breastbone, time has ceased to be a measure and has become a state of being. Today, my inner landscape is a morning forest after rain. Gone is the dry, dusty anxiety of summer, and the icy rigidity of winter. Instead, I feel the dampness of fertile soil— the earth is alive, breathing, ready to birth, yet in no hurry to do so. The air holds that crystalline purity that comes only after a storm or after a long weep that has washed away the sediment of the ego. The silence is not empty; it is saturated, dense, present. There is a slightly misty feeling, but it does not frighten. In the psychoanalytic sense, this fog is the liminal space—the th...
